The Game
by Azulsky
Summary: The game had been perfected to a point where entire nights had been passed in stillness, without the hint of dreams creeping in.
1. Game

Dean rubbed his eyes silently in the dark as shadows danced around the room from the motel window. What little light was in the room cascaded onto Sam and his bed. Dean carefully lowered his hand to his sides making no noise. He had always been good with stealth. Movement was his specialty; he could physically get in or out of many impossible situations with grace. It was his mouth that got him in trouble.

It didn't matter what he said with demons or ghosts, unless it was a curse or a chant to get rid of the damn thing. Normal situations were where his mouth faltered: the bar fights, the slaps in the face, the horrible pick up lines, the fights with Sam, and Dean would not forget his little slip up when he was two. All this because of his huge, gigantic mouth. At night was when Dean was silent.

Sam's rhythmic breathing lulled Dean into a comfortable trance, as he tried to keep his body as still as the room, allowing only the shadows to dance around him. It was something he picked up when he was little, a game. To see how long could he last without moving while still being conscious. The game had been perfected to a point where entire nights had been passed in stillness, without the hint of dreams creeping in.

It was the dreams the forced him to participate in the game, the nightmares. He could remember nights where he woke up screaming, mom would sit with him, rubbing circles into his back. Her presence helped the most on nights he saw her dead. It was the warmth, not the circular motions on his back, that calmed him; the dead weren't warm, even three year olds knew that. Dean didn't move as he placed his attention on Sam. Focusing on his brother's breathing and shifting. He was curious to see if he could nail down the sleeping pattern of his companion. His father was easy. The man would never sleep on his stomach, always on his back. John was a man to go out facing whatever came. It amazed Dean to no end how the man would never, _never_ shift at night. Only when the hard-ass was sick did the man move, rolling on his side, usually his right, to help with the congestion.

Sam was similar to dad. He slept on his back, but with one major difference. He shifted like a kid with ADD who missed a dose of Ritalin. Dean didn't smirk, but thought about it. The kid had way too much energy. Even in the car, Sam would bounce his legs, slap his thighs, beat pencils on the door, even resorted to flicking his lip a few times. Sam's sheets were around his waist; he wasn't as twitchy tonight has he had been. Dean didn't sigh; he kept still.

Dean, he slept on his stomach, had found it the most comfortable position, screw the back, the stomach was were it was at. With his head turned to the side, facing away from Sam, toward the back wall; he watched the steady rise of light enter the room. Both hands were at his sides; he felt nothing of his body or the sheet underneath him. It was simple to be steady and still once that point was reached. With all the bugging Dean did with Sam, it would have surprised the younger brother that he got more sleep than Dean did on any given night. Dean had figured out how to function without it, to relax his exhaustion without succumbing to sleep.

Dean closed his eyes. The movement tickled his face, unused to the sensation.

_I saw mommy die on the ceiling._

Dean didn't shutter; he kept still. The game was still in play, had been for years. After mom, that's when he took up the game full time, becoming a adept. He didn't want to see anything else, only the present. His logic at the time was, since he had dreamt it, it had happened. So, if he didn't dream, then nothing bad would happen. Dean would stop dreaming. A few slip-ups happened over the years, allowing three dreams to surface. One, at this point, had yet to happen.

Dean felt himself fade out of the motel room, and put an immediate stop to that by opening his eyes, shocking his brain conscious. He allowed himself two quick blinks before only blinking when necessary.

Sam hadn't moved in four hours. That was always a good sign to Dean, who did not move much in his sleep. His unconscious mind was conditioned by the game.

A moan came from across the room. _Strike that_, Dean thought, _guess it wasn't a good sign_. Silence followed the moan for a few moments, then the light fixture on the far wall shattered, littering the floor in broken glass, as Sam woke up. Dean hadn't moved, but was counting the seconds between Sam's jerky movements as he sat up.

The former dreamer rubbed his forehead, graduating to placing the heals of his hands in his eyes, sighing. It wasn't getting any easier to deal with, only easier to cover up. Sam lowered his hands, and looked toward his brother's bed. He couldn't see Dean's face, but was sure it was frozen in a state of pure blissful happiness; Sam couldn't remember a time when Dean had nightmares. Another sigh escaped Sam's throat.

Shards of soft light, glittering from the barely born sun in the window, caught Sam's eye, off past Dean's bed.

"Oh, hell." Memory of the sound of glass shattering resounded in Sam's head. "Oh, hell." His eyes fell on Dean again. The sound should have woken him up, Dean had always been an alert sleeper, but the man was as still as night air.

Slowly, Sam placed his feet on the floor, and gingerly crept toward the shards of glass, finally entering Dean's view.

Dean didn't get up; he watched as Sam analyzed the light fixture without bending.

_Screw this_, Dean got up.

"Sam?"

"I broke it, Dean." Sam didn't turn around as Dean took the few step needed to stand behind his brother.

"Yeah."

"Aren't you scared?"

Dean didn't hesitate.

"If I were a light bulb, maybe."

Sam head snapped back to take in Dean's eyes.

"Be serious, Dean." He pointed toward the wreckage, "look what I did, _accidentally_, you can't tell me that you aren't scared at what I might do. What I _can_ do."

Dean closed the gap between them.

"Sam, I know you will never hurt me."

Sam scoffed.

"I have."

Dean sighed, brushing his hand through his hair. Then he nodded.

"You're hand hurt me, even made me bleed, but it wasn't you. It was an altered part, twisted, demented, possessed. Given our circumstances, your hand may injure me again, even kill. It will be whatever that possessed you, not you. This," gesturing toward the shattered glass, "is you. It won't hurt me."

"How do you know?"

Dean smirked,

"I just do."

"You're insane, you know that."

Dean shrugged,

"Whatever." Sam proceeded to slap the side of Dean's head, who ducked the attempt.

Sam picked up the trash can with the intention of cleaning up the glass. There was no broom or dust bin in the room, so he used one of the complementary cups offered in the bathroom to scoop up the glass, dumping it in the trash.

Light increased in the motel window as time passed. It had been dusty when Dean had first woken up from his short bought of sleep, but now it was clearly early morning.

As Sam cleaned, Dean was thinking. He knew what would happen to Sam if he continued to dream as he did, but Dean wasn't about share his little game. Sammy wasn't going to hide.

"What was the dream?"

Dean was lounged on his bed, watching Sam, giving him a clear view of his brother's hesitation.

Sam's mouth closed and began to shake his head.

It always happened like this, Sam would shut down, pretend that nothing happened, when clearly something did. Avoidance, it was something they had in common.

"Dude, I swear-"

"Swear what, Dean?" Sam stopped scooping glass. "What are you going to do?"

"Help."

Sam laughed wholeheartedly. It was like a hyena teasing the abandoned carcass.

"What the hell can you do, Dean? Jump into my head and beat the crap out of my nightmares?" Sam wouldn't put it past him to try either.

"That's just silly, Sam." An eyebrow cocked, "you'd think it work?" Sam didn't answer him, only stared. "What was the dream?"

"No."

Dean off the bed and was kneeling in front of his brother within seconds; Sam missed it by blinking.

"I can't help you if I don't know what I am fighting."

"This isn't a demon, you can't treat it like one."

Dean pointed toward what was left of the glass on the floor.

"This _is_ hurting you." He paused, searching his brother's eyes. "What was the dream?"

"I saw mom." He swallowed. "Instead of where Jess was, it was mom." Dean flinched; Sam continued softly, looking down at nothing. "I don't even think it was my room- at school. I think it was my nursery."

Dean knew the dream. Though he had never entered the room when it was ablaze, he had seen it many times before that moment.

_I saw mommy die on the ceiling._

Sam was too young to have this be a memory. Only dad could claim to dream of that night. Sam never had this dream before, and to have it on this particular night when Dean himself had. It wasn't a stretch from receiving images of strangers hundreds of miles away that were in danger, to seeing other's dreams.

Over the past few years, Dean had allowed himself to sleep in longer bands of time, even sleeping full nights. That was rare, though. Most nights, he stayed still. Sam had made him feel secure when he came back; Dean to let his guard down. After tonight, Dean wouldn't dream again. He couldn't let Sam feel this pain.

"Has this happened before? This dream?"

"No." Replied shortly.

Dean sighed,

"I'm sure it won't happen again."

Sam stared incredulously.

"Excuse me?"

"It's just stress, probably from the last gig. A few days, you'll be fine."

It was Sam's turn to sigh.

"I hate to break it to you, Dean, but this whole thing, what we do, is stressful. One little break isn't doing to do shit." The older brother frowned at the uncommon used of language.

"Trust me. I know this job sucks for you. I know that you want to leave- don't interrupt, I'm on a roll- with me, I like what I do, in fact I love it, so it gives me something to offset the stress. I can take it- not saying you can't- but you're hurting a lot right now. I have to find something to relieve some of this pressure. There's no way to relieve all of it, 'cause dude, you're one broody bastard, but this can't keep happening."

Sam didn't lift his eyes from the floor.

"This is the first time."

"Yes, and it won't happen again. But the other nightmares, those keep happening." Sam looked at his brother, taking in Dean's tone.

Most often, Dean would brush things off quickly, but, Sam noted, not here. He confronted Sam almost immediately, not backing down. It was gentle, his approach, not invasive, like a doctor pealing away dead skin so the wound would heal cleaner; it wasn't fun but it had to be done.

How could he be _so_ sure? How could he look Sam in the face and tell him he will be alright, and not be lying? There was a steadiness in Dean's eyes when he was speaking, drawing out Sam. But Sam didn't want to speak.

"I'm thirsty."

"There's a vending machine a few rooms down" Dean accepted Sam's distraction, merely for formal purposes, both knew he'd be back. Nothing was over, nothing ever was. He padded out to the machines, leaving Sam alone. Sam dwelled in the silence, absorbing it, wishing his mind was like the still air when he slept, with no movement, no shadows, nothing to jump out at him. Clear, crisp, translucent air.

The glass was gone when Dean returned, with cans of Coke in hand. Tossing one to a sprawled out Sam, whose eyes were closed when he caught the soda. Dean sat on his bed, Indian style, sipping the refreshing coke, eyes on his brother.

"Dude, would you stop." Sam's eyes continued to stay closed.

"What?"

"Watching me."

Dean's eyebrow went up,

"I'm just sitting here thinking."

"Ten bucks says if I open my eyes, yours are on me."

Dean averted his eyes toward his bedspread,

"Jesus."

Moment of soundless existence passed. Dean staring at his bedspread, Sam at his eyelids.

"How are you so sure?"

There had been three dreams since the one of his mother's death, making a total of four prophetic dreams for Dean Winchester. Three of them happened, leaving one to the future. If one were to look closely enough at the man's actions through the years, one could see where knowledge of future events was known. His actions subtle, but none the less telling.

Dean carried Sam out of the house without much hesitation, when he was four. All his Dad had to do was place the younger in the older's hands, and he took off. When their father joined his sons outside, grief written in his face, Dean didn't have to be told what had happened. In fact, John did not speak of what happened for days afterward. He hovered, moving between holding Dean and cradling Sam. Dean helped his father, never once asking where was mommy.

When Dean was twelve, he pushed a man out of a car's path. No one had seen it coming as it took a sharp turn, appearing as if by a magic trick. Two old ladies, who had been on the side walk, had witnessed the whole thing, calling the dear boy a miracle, saving that poor man from a gruesome death. They were quite amazed that he had acted so quickly, when they had not heard the squeal of tires, that Dean said alerted him to the trouble. A miracle, they said. After brushing off the dirt, Dean walked away. Neither his dad nor Sam knew about what he had done in Hannibal, Missouri.

Fourteen years later, Dean broke down a door and pulled his brother out of an inferno, when, minutes earlier after saying goodbye to Sam and dropping the man off to be with Jessica, at home, he drove away. What Sam didn't know was Dean only drove to the corner, then waited. He had tried at first to avoid it, keep Sam from going home that weekend, with a false hope that if he kept Sam away from Jessica, she would be fine. Sam's stubbornness was strong and Dean's sense of denial was weak, he was never one to delude himself. If it was going to happen, it was going to happen. He just had to be there for Sam, who had never questioned Dean about his perfect timing.

The last dream, the fourth, had yet to happen. Dean didn't know when it would. The simple knowledge of its existence, of what would happen, gave Dean a steadiness. Nothing he did would change it, so he accepted it.

"Because I am." He spun the coke can between his hands, "Just as I know Coke is better than Pepsi." A mouthful of soda met Dean's stomach.

Sam clicked his tongue as he sat up.

"What _makes_ you so sure? What makes you think I'm going to be alright? My dreams-"

"Why, Sam, are you the one jumping so quickly to the conclusion that nothing is fine?"

"Because nothing is." The brothers eyes latched on each other. "My dreams are filled with blood, and fire, and death. How is that alright?"

This is what Dean was waiting for, Sam's curiosity at Dean's attitude had overridden his avoidance.

"Never said it was alright, just said I can find a way to help."

"How?"

"At this point? No idea…Well maybe we could start with me saying this: Do not, for the love of God, bundle all this up inside." The coke can was nearly empty now. Dean swirled the can around, eyeing the vortex of black syrupy goodness. "I'm here if- when you need to talk."

Sam stared.

"You want a moment?"

"I'm serious."

"I know, and that's what scares me." Sam cocked his head, "This must be serious if you are willing to do that."

Dean closed his eyes.

"I just want to protect you." Sam watched him for a moment, almost missing the glimmer of something foreign in Dean's eyes. He was hiding something from Sam by closing them; Sam knew it as fear.

"You said you're not afraid," throwing his hand out, pointing at Dean, "what's that, then?"

Dean wanted to swear, fling the soda can at the wall, walk out, beat the wall, crash his car into a tree; Dean stayed still.

Through clenched teeth, Dean spoke.

"I'm not scared, Sammy."

"Bullshit." Now the little bastard was testing him. Sometimes the game worked well in daytime situations, much like this one. Dean relaxed himself.

Truth was, Dean knew what was going to happen on one fateful day in the future and Sammy had no fucking clue. He had made a promise not to tell a single soul about it. It was his secret. Telling his dad of his nightmare taught Dean things could change for the worst, not better. A mistake he learned from. Sam was the type that would chase down the very last shred of hope; the faith healer was a testament to that. Dean would not let that happen.

Dean stayed still; banishing further dreams from entering his mind.

"I am not afraid, Sammy." The coke can sailed through the air, meeting the shattered glass in the trashcan.

"Why?" Anger strangling the word. Sam was no longer sitting, but pacing in between the two beds. "Why do you keep lying, Dean? Why do you keep calm, when I know, _know_ you're screaming inside? Just like me, Dean, I am fucking terrified, and I keep screaming for something to come, something to stop it, end the shadows. How can you sit their calm, when I fucking know you are scared to death?" Sam paused, sucking in air, slowly regaining some form of calm, anything to keep his head from exploding. "Unless you're not human. Unless you've changed into some uncaring thing, that doesn't feel, or recognize emotion. Because I can't see how you can be calm and so_ sure_ that I'll be alright. That all of this is fixable."

Dean's hand met his face, moving down in a slow, tired fashion.

"I'm human, Sam." Dean noticed he was sighing a lot lately, "That has not changed." His hand fell to his lap, "but that thing, the thing you are screaming for, it's not coming."

After all of Dean's talk to make Sam feel safe, he rips the safety away.

"That'd be just stupid, since it's already here."

Or not.


	2. Related

AN: Alright, so I decided to expand, there'll probably be more but I still don't know. Tell me what you think please.

* * *

"You ignored it." A pause, "You shut it down. They got tired of waiting for you, so they made him see." She sighed, "Only, he wasn't made to see. Ever wonder why he gets headaches, when they never happened to you?"

"He's not used-"

"No, he isn't. You were born with this. He wasn't."

She saw what her word were doing. It just had to be done. For the safety of both of them. "It's hurting him." The man's head lowered, hiding his face from her.

"I said the same thing to him," he whispered. Not too long ago either. Had to have been three months now. Sam had been right, things got better for a time, but a whole lot worse soon enough. Of all the ways for Sam to be right, it was this one.

Things were not alright, and they weren't going to be.

"They could be." Dean's head snapped up, catching her eyes. He forgot what she could do. "You don't have to be on guard every moment of your life, dear. He's not going to go wander off and get mauled by a bear. Neither are you."

"I'm not worried about bears."

"No." She nodded, "Things suck- I think those are your words too- but they can be fixed, if you let them." Dean's eyes closed, contemplating his future, Sam's future. She cocked her head to the side listening to the unheard moments, frown capturing her face. That's how he ignored. The why was there, and now she had the how. The poor boy didn't sleep.

Visions acquainted slowly through dreams, allowing the receiver to understand how things worked, until there was no difference between wakefulness and sleep. She had been similar.

No acquaintance had been made between Dean the visions since he hesitated at the handshake. He sat in the living room while a visitor stood outside, ringing the doorbell. Both knew each party was there, with no contact made. A handshake could still happen between the two parties. It had been too many years, but still, she knew, the relationship would grow as fast as a weed. Not that it was as inheritably bad as a weed, just had the growing attribute.

"You need to let them in, meet them." A ripple crossed Dean's face, something she recognized. He didn't respond; she heard him all the same. Which is why she used the necessary weapon against him. "It could help Sam."

She might have smiled, wanting to not rub in her victory. With Sam, there lied a hope, a bribe really, in getting Dean to what needed to be done.

"You are sick, you know that?"

She shrugged.

"Some say grave digging and robbing is sick."

She would have danced, he was a stubborn bastard, but he wasn't saying no to her idea. Wasn't saying yes either, but wasn't saying no. There should have been cake.

"This is why I hate psychics." Gesturing toward his head, "You play with things up here."

"Well, guess what, darling, then you must really hate yourself."

He stayed silent after that.


	3. Change

Dean didn't hate hospitals. He appreciated what they did; what they tried to do for everyone. You can't hate something that tried to help. It just doesn't mean that he liked being there. He hated _being_ at the hospital, not the hospital itself. There's a difference.

One good thing, he was scuffed up beyond looking good or smelling good, for that matter, yet no one seemed to care. No one stared. Their problems were more important than dirt.

Exhaustion.

That's what the doctors said. He dropped, in the middle of a gig, from exhaustion. Dean was lucky he didn't think when he fought, if he had he knew he would have hesitated getting to Sammy before the ugly.

"Jerk, you took me to a hospital."

Dean's head snapped toward the doorway on his right. He was up without a passing blink.

You get back into that bed, or so help me God-"

"What are you going to do, Dean?"

Dean glared. Sam swayed. Dean poked Sam's chest through the gown; the nurses had underestimated Sam's body size, giving him a mini skirt instead of a calf length paper thin gown. Idly, Dean wondered if what Sam was wearing was for a girl and they ran out of GIANT gowns.

Dean herded Sam back to the bed, even tucked him in.

"You know full well these beds are _way _more comfortable than the motels and we are not passing up one free night in a comfy bed."

Sam snorted.

"Free?"

"Is either of us Thomas Quinn?" Sam shook his head. "Then it's free to us." Dean didn't idle long on the observation that Sam didn't fight Dean's hands away when he tucked him in. He wanted a fight.

Sam watched as long as his eyes allowed him before they drowned under eyelids. Dean sat down in a chair carved by the devil himself.

"Fuck."

_Watch your tongue, boy._

"Oh, yeah. Like anyone's going to hear me."

_Talk to yourself like a crazy? Oh yes they will._

"They'll just think I'm talking to him," he gestured toward his sleeping brother.

_Maybe, but you've never risked it before._

"He's never done this before."

_No, but you have._

"That was before I knew better."

_The Game_.

"He was trying his own version."

_Isn't very good, though._

"Not at all."

_Can I say I told you-_

"Finish that sentence-"

_And what?_

"I'll come over there."

_Would you really? With him right there?_

"You suck."

_Tongue. Tongue._

Dean's eyes rolled. Then he ripped off his black leather bracelets.

"Try that." Silence met him. "Psychics." He shook his head and stuffed the bracelet into his jacket pocket.

Two days into the hospital and Sam fought Dean's hands when he went to tuck him in.

No longer did the circles around his eyes look like black eyes, nor did his eyes fight his commands. He didn't sway on his way to the bathroom. That was enough for Sam to want to clear himself from the hospital. Dean wasn't sure if he should have fought it. Either way, it wasn't going to be any good. If he went home, that'd mean Dean would have to talk to Sam. Family talks weren't for public places. If Sam stayed in the hospital, it would imply he was worse off. Sam hated weakness just as much as Dean. His ideas of what were weaknesses were different, though they shared some ideas.

Sam signing himself out took the decision out of Dean's hands.

Once at the motel, Dean forced Sam to take a bed and stay there.

"I'm not tired." At this point, Dean had been sitting, waiting, patiently for everything to begin. For the moment that everything would boil over. He knew Sam was the pot of water and he was the fire. He understood that.

"Bullshit." He didn't hide anything in the word, nothing at all. Sam stared.

"I'm not."

"And I'm a Lady in White, Sam."

"I don't want to sleep."

"There is a difference between wanting to sleep and needing it. You don't have a choice."

"I never do." Sam mumbled. Dean heard it though and froze.

"Damn it Sam, you had a choice. Now you don't. That's your fault."

"I hate this."

"You think I'm loving this?" Dean's voice raised slightly." We were in the middle of a fucking fight with a nasty looking sucker, and you collapse. I didn't know what was going on." Dean rubbed his chest. "Jesus Sam, you can't do that to me."

Sam was silent before he turned on his side and closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry." Sam whispered, groggy.

"Sorry implies you won't do it again."

He didn't get a response. He blamed it on sleep and sighed. Sam was running, but you couldn't run away from dreams. Dean knew. Hazel eyes closed a moment.

"Do you remember that thing you were screaming for to save you? I said it was here." He breathed. "It just wasn't doing anything."

Dean climbed onto the other bed, turned to make sure Sam was sleeping, and closed his eyes.

"Shit."

Dean slept and Sam didn't have any nightmares.


	4. Realization

The trucks outside woke Sam without waking Dean; his eyes turning immediately toward the table and chairs near the foot of his bed, surprised to not see Dean.

Rustling came to him from the next bed. Sam watched his brother toss onto his side facing away from Sam. He'd been sure Dean would have stayed up, make sure he slept.

Sam rubbed at his eyes as he sat against the headboard, pulling the covers farther up on him, head tilting toward the next bed. Dean wasn't much to move at night. He always found the most comfortable position before fully succumbing to sleep. Most people Sam knew got annoyed at the noisy sleepers, the ones that moved around so much that they twisted their sheets all around them. He was one of them; suffered the wrath of others for it, but those were the sleepers Sam didn't mind. Not because they were like him, but because he didn't need to check to make sure they were breathing. Dean slept still, with his face into the pillow most of the time. Maybe Sam was being paranoid with the thoughts of his brother suffocating, or that each night Dean would stay still.

Dean's black shirt moved, making indistinguishable shadows with each breath taken.

He hadn't meant to collapse, now he knows not sleeping is not an option. If he lived any other way, some quiet one where no one knew who he was and he didn't matter, he could collapse until his heart was content. He can't take the chance here where it could hurt Dean.

Going into the last gig Sam felt it. The sluggish pull of weight on his limbs, attaching to each joint as if it was demolition time and everyone was prepping to tear down. Winchester men were notorious for their power to ignore things. A gift bestowed to them from up on high that came in good and handy when they were kids. Sitting two boys down together in a small car caused all to learn to deal with flying toys or unknown brown liquids that wouldn't be rubbed out of the carpet no matter the cleaning fluid used, but sit two grown men down in a bar with a laptop where one becomes so tired he can't even type, the power to ignore becomes detrimental.

Not that Sam blames Dean for allowing him to collapse, not at all. Sam takes full responsibility for his actions, unless he's possessed or brain fucked. Which, again, happens a lot, just not here though.

Dean doesn't move once he's picked a spot, so why did he roll?

It's been a long couple of days for him, Sam, come on. It's not like you wouldn't be stressed if your baby brother drops in a middle of a hunt.

Sam wipes at his face. He didn't think of that. Dean could have thought it was anything. They weren't trained for normal. As normal as sleep deprivation was. Spell, curses, weird creepy charms that smell funky, yeah, they deal with, biological mechanisms, no, not so much.

"Jesus." Sam didn't even want to control the volume of his voice. Dean only grunted. "Crap."

Dean grunted again, almost as if agreeing.


End file.
